There was a story in the paper the other day that could not possibly have meant anything to you. Nothing. Nada. I promise.

An old-school tire company in Portland is closing its doors. Century Tire.

Why does this mean anything to any of us?

Only because a tiny, tiny sliver of important Maine culture is now slipping away.

In the l970s, I was driving a beat-up yellow Ford Pinto that my father got from a salvage yard, fixed up and let me use. I ran into a sharp-edged curb somewhere and damaged a tire. Somebody told me to scrape together $40 and go to Century Tire to get it fixed.

“You any relation to Ralph Warren?” the guy behind the counter growled at me. Yes, I said, he is my grandfather.

“Oh, great guy!” he roared, going from scowl to smile in 1.4 seconds. “Let me tell you a story.” He then told me five stories. Or maybe six. The stories would multiply over the years.

Turns out my grandfather, who started a trucking company in South Portland in l9l9 may have had some “interesting” cargo on trips back from Florida to Maine.

(1919, boys and girls, was the year Congress set up Prohibition. Grandpa hauled “furniture and small appliances” to Florida, he told me once; on the trips back? “We came back empty,” he said. “Awwww, your grandfather gave us THE best bottles of booze at Christmas time!” the Century Tire guy said. He wanted our business, shipping tires to New Hampshire and stuff. Great moonshine!”). Grandpa had a hidden stash for 30-plus years.

The upshot of all this was this fellow behind the counter, Marty Silverman, felt the need to be Dutch Uncle to Ralph Warren’s errant grandson.

“Kid, what are you dooooooiiiiiinnnnngggggg?” Marty would anguish, coming around the counter to show me the work order. “You been mistreating this car. The tires are your feet. They are cut. Did you hit a sharp curb?”

Moi? No. Er, uh, no, gee, I don’t remember doing anything. “There was a deer I swerved to avoid last week … and I think I hit some rocks in the soft shoulder then.” I offered this time-honored feeble teenager deer-swerve story.

“Kid, that’s just a bunch of crap,” Marty said. “A bunch of crap. What am I going to tell your grandfather? A trucking legend! His grandson doesn’t respect motor vehicles?!”

I quickly got contrite. What do I do? I asked. “Don’t worry, kid; we’re going to take care of this one for you … but, jeez, This car is your baby ….”

I paid him $40. I left with a fixed tire and a lecture.

This would not be the last one.

My car tires were bald once in the l980s. “You can’t do this!” Marty would upbraid. “This is no way to drive!” I had the high standards of automotive pioneer Ralph Warren to uphold.

In the 1990s once, my tires had low air pressure. “No wonder your mileage stinks!” Professor Silverman would intone. “You ever climb Mt. Katahdin with blisters on your feet?!” I know I know, here it comes – “You think your grandfather was driving those jugs from the stills in Georgia to us back in the 1920s on flat tires?? No! Shape up!”

Yes, sir, Mr. Silverman, sir.

I see commercials on TV now from different automotive people in Zip Code 04074 land. They all promise great customer service for your dollar. Free coffee, too!

Marty Silverman’s your-grandfather-would-be-very-disappointed-in-you approach would not sell these days in my little hometown of Scarborough.

Too bad.

Nowadays? I make sure my tire pressure is good. I avoid sharp curbs. I even rotate my tires now and then (well, I did once).

Why? Because an old-school guy – someone I was paying money to!! – threatened to box my ears back if I didn’t.

A moment of silence, please, for the passing of Century Tire. R.I.P.

Dan Warren is a lawyer who lives in Scarborough. He can be reached at: jonesandwarren@gmail.com.